Dinh AaronMk

Fallout: Equestria - of RP and Bellyrubs

I've done mostly NRP for most of my RP Career and I preferred to start secluded so I can get some footing before the closest scrub-lord decides to go Age of Empires and declare war for no purpose but empty conquest. And even post-footing I've had to deal with people who pulled out so much shit from their ass in order to win that conflict wasn't worth it and uninteresting to write.

As per how I'll be running Rusted Bit: I am prepared to have - if temporarily - other's cross his path and travel along with him for a while. I'm also planning out how to delay his travel so it isn't a straight route to Neighagra.

The New Empires

You're welcome.

The New Empires

Goldeagle1221 said
What?

I cleaned up my backlog.

The New Empires

And this has drifted back to things to post on next. You're welcome.

Fallout: Equestria - of RP and Bellyrubs

A full belly had the warm welcoming sensation of being heartily cared for. More so when paid out of the pocket of someone else. However this feeling was dampened by the nauseous feeling of being hungover. It stretched and strained oddly in Rusted's gut, and did not feel none to comfortable. He moaned as he moved, fearing at any one point he might vomit. The food which he had choked down was thick and laden with grease. An odd juxtaposition of flavors that neither settled nor flew against him.

And despite his muted protest, the unicorn insisted he kept eating. He barked and hemmed and hawed. Running on irrelevant tangents and making his ears bleed before he surrendered and ate the food. It was poorly hidden, and he felt little pride. Radhog bacon and grilled brahmin mixed with all sorts of preserved vegetables and filler. It wasn't a meal for a pony, it was more for a griffon. Or a hellhound.

All the same though, he wasn't dying from the meal.

As soon as he had finished eating, the unicorn had flipped the large tab. Leaving behind an uncounted assortment of caps before stealing him off. Wrapping his magic around his tail and flinging him off the crate-chairs of the open air diner and dragging him along the muddied streets. This didn't last long, and he lashed out angrily. His enraged and pained mewling giving him the freedom to walk on his own.

The light still burned. It still dug in his eyes. And his head still felt heavy. But whether it was being told it was good for him or magic of the meal, he wasn't feeling as doghaired.

It still did not slow the trot of the unicorn. Or dodged quickly between the diverse crowds that muddled about in the safer settelments of the old Hoover ruins and the regions around it. Many prospectors coming in from the city interior, or going out to meet it. It was not unusual for shadier characters to lurk off to the side, raiders disowned of their weapons in order to enter the settlements. Escorts and whores looking for a good catch.

And all of which between those trying to live. Ranchers, caravaneers, and the people who lived off of them. Farmers, a few who called themselves miners, and doctors, and those who served into them. It was a loose, wanton mingling of anarchy under a very loose law concerned only with protecting peace. Which meant no one was armed, in an obvious way at least. And no one denied in such a way it might invoke wrath. But the Hoover region was nearly always characteristically calm, if wet.

The ruins of Hoover was a symbol and a relic of the time passed. Stone and steel towers that rose up above them. Some torn apart from the inside out. Torn or toppled. Fallen sky-scrapers leaned over the wide broken roadways creating long stretches of cover lit by innumerable lamplights. Wooden catwalks ran over where the sewer and storm drains had collapsed in on themselves, and were now a strongly flowing current to The Sound.

Interspersed between the skyscrapers stood more modest buildings. Townhouses built in rows down streets trimmed with dead bushes and the remains of shelled cars. Residents had chipped away at these corpses some times. Salvaging a little scrap when they could, or fuel for fire when they needed it. The old hedges were not much anymore, gnawed down to only trunks. And the old wagons only metal frames at many common times.

Where the unicorn was taking Rusted was a far reach. Passing into and out of the croweded and empty places of the city. The longer they kept on the trail the faster they moved. Hastening from a casual trot to a canter. Rusted feared if he'd ever attempt a gallop. He also feared he was lost. Or this was all bullshit on his part and if he should turn around and find more promising, consistent work and leave the north-west.

His haste came to a close as he trotted up to the doors of a smaller building. Its surface a pearly white, like what was rumored to have once stood in Canterlot proper, before being cursed and destroyed. But cracks broke its exterior shell and shattered its uniformity and nobility. Still, all the same, those that had taken up residence had decided to treat the structure with respect due to it. The yard had been cleared, and the sickly green of young grass poked up from the blackened charred soil as someone sought to nurture greenery in the wasteland. Though splotchy, coats of new paint covered the exterior, hoping to restore the vibrancy of its stone; though in vain. Columns and pillars that braced its face and the veranda above had been sealed and packed with what looked like homemade Wonderglue. Even the windows had been somehow replaced.

The doors of its entrance were heavy and dark, inlaid with cleaned and polished brass. It still shone dark as the ancient wood itself, but carried with it a sheen that reflected the stormy light. And with a groan the hinges gave as they opened, goaded open by the unicorn who bid Rusted inside.

***

Sounds of horns sang softly down the hallway, smoothed and timed to the soft timely strum of a bass and the soft hiss of cymbals. Dullened by the soft grainy hiss of static it danced muffled down the narrow carpeted hallway from behind a far door. Uncharacteristic of the outside and the foyer, the hallway was a long and unfortunately ruined space. Several side-doors they passed had been boarded up. The crimson flowered wallpaper peeled back from the drywall behind.

The carpeting as well was rough and jagged underhoof. Walking across it was like walking across sharp stones. And still not fully recovered from a hangover Rusted Bits kept to the side, keeping as little contact with the abrasive rug as possible and choosing to walk along the uneven and splitting wooden floorboards. The entire hall groaned under the two's weight as they drew nearer to the music at the end.

“For as long as I've been in the area I didn't think once I'd visit the Northern White House.” Rusted said unimpressed, “But now I regret I have.”

“The foyer did not impress you?” the unicorn grinned as he looked back. He took kept off the rug. So it wasn't just Rusted.

“Well, I've seen better in older mansions.” Rusted scoffed, “Now I'm beginning to doubt anything notable from the Old World is as good as it should be.”

“Mmmm, then you have not been inside Tenpony.” laughed the unicorn, “That tower surpasses this place by not miles or leagues, but centuries.

“But,” he added with a taunting smile, “I doubt they'd let a filthy mud pony such as yourself in on a whim.”

“You should count your stars you so thankfully paid me off in food and I'm not still already half-dead from a hangover.” Rusted cursed between clenched teeth.

“Not your morning? Oh, then I'm sorry. I'd like to see just how well you can get through someone pinning you to a wall with magic.” the unicorn taunted.

“Am I going to get this hospitality from your employer? I should walk out now.”

“Oh, just see him out.” Rusted's unpleasant companion assured, stepping alongside a set of double doors at the end of the hall. Murky glass caked over with still persistent grime shrouded the room beyond, allowing only the faintest light out.

“Who are you anyways?” asked Rusted as the unicorns magic shrouded the door handles. They clicked loudly with a sudden pop as he turned them and gently pushed them open.

“You'll find out.” he said, heading in. Rusted followed, cynical and cautious.

The door opened up to a sizable open main room. Wide windows along the far-wall let in the dim stormy light, broken by the trailing droplets as the outside rain picked up. Beyond which the forest of steel and ruins that was Vanhoover stretched out to the distant hills, mixing with clumped patches of wild forest just trying to regrow.

Alongside the windows night stands topped with shining glass bottles of special Sparkle Cola sat. Less as an invitation to drink, but more a source of ambient light to bathe the room. The tessellated wallpaper shone with the soft blues and greens of the luminescent soda.

In the middle of the window stood an old gramophone. On its turn table spun a vinyl record, plied over by a bent old needle. The megascope itself was in no worse wear, brandishing the same scratches and dents the wood-paneled body did. But for artifacts of the old world, it was in one of the best conditions Rusted had ever seen.

Stepping inside the caravaneer looked the room over. The halls may not have been impressive, but the room here made up for it, half way. It was spacier than the closets he often was forced to rent at numerous road-side roadhouses and motels. And smelled less like blood, piss, sex, and shit.

“Gentlemen.” a voice said from the side. Impatient and refined, it spoke with a deepened drawl. From somewhere out east.

Rusted turned to a light-green unicorn standing in the door. Crystal blue eyes ran the earth pony up and down with a discontent look. A long horn rose out from a mat of combed back chocolate mane. “You're a minute late.” he said, magicing out a stop-watch from the pocket of a light-purple dress vest. Rusted was amazed to see – for once – an immaculate dress shirt underneath.

“It was busy on the streets.” the blue unicorn said uncomfortably.

The green buck shot him an irritated expression and he flinched back. “Never the less. Better than never.” the green one said with a dismissive cough. “Rusted Bits, am I correct?” he asked, turning to Rusted.

“I am...” Rusted said uncomfortably, “And you?”

“I'm Dr. Alms. No need for anything more.” the green unicorn introduced himself, “You've met my assistant Clear Morning.”

Rusted nodded, “Nice to meet you.” he said, “I'm under the impression you have a job for me?” he asked.

“I do.” Dr Alms said, “If you follow me, we can sit down for a little coffee and discuss what needs to be done.” he invited.

“As you wish.” nodded Rusted, following the doctor deeper into the suite. “So, you're a doctor?” the caravaneer asked.

“I am.” Alms said.

“So in the Wasteland care thing?” he asked.

“No, very little of that these days.” Alms said, keeping a flat tone, “Not since the Day of Sunshine and Rainbows. I was always the ambitious type, I guess you could say. When most of the hospitals near where I lived in Manehatten cleared out of radiation I was the first to dive in. I aimed to carry off as many surviving records as I could, and any medication I could find.” the doctor walked around the side of a pair of couches facing each other. The sitting room they found themselves in was much less spacious. But dominated on two sides by a pair of large windows overlooking the city-streets outside. A coffee table sat in the middle between the light-blue couches.

“I devoted myself to what study I could, expanding my practice, and even went into Tenpony to study a little under the doctor there. Ever since I started practicing, I wasn't set to keep patching bullet holes and running a half-working auto-doc. No, I had better things.

“And well, now I'm different fields. As the Old World might call: radiology and general physiology. And not field dressing. My skills and practice goes well into the study of cancers and tumors now. I'm not handing out simple poultices based on two-hundred year old healing potions to treat simple stomach ailments when I can recommend and prescribe simple vitamins.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.” Rusted said, stepping up to the couches. Alms was the first to take a seat, stretching out on the cushions.

“I didn't think you would.” Alms smiled, his blue eyes shining with a deep natural smugness. “Go on, take a seat.” he invited.

Rusted nodded, obliging the officer and sitting back into the couch. It was hard, and hardly really sagged under his weight. Leaning against the arm he waited for the doctor to speak.

“I – and my assistant – have come under the privileged employ of two very powerful, and very old ponies out east.” he said with a sigh, “The two I have learned since working with them that they seek immortality. A prospect generally made easy that they're ghouls.”

“So I'm working for a pair of ghouls?” Rusted said, “I don't know why this couldn't have been said earlier.”

“Well do note that I said they're powerful.” Alms replied critically, “They both assured me their power may bring the attention of some personal enemies of theirs if it got too out in public. I guess Morning kept a strict air of secrecy.”

“I did, sir.” Morning said from the corner.

“Fair enough.” Alms said, “So where's the coffee?”

“Oh, sorry sir.” Morning bowed, stepping out of the room.

“Anyways,” Alms continued, “my employers have been looking for a way to keep alive. With the snuffing out of the ambient radiation from Equestria it's become increasingly difficult for them to heal their injuries and be, well, ghouls. And they want to live independent off of irradiated water.”

“Well how come?” Rusted asked, last he checked the so called Aqua Cura of Ditzy Doo was a pretty powerful tonic for ghouls.

Alms shrugged, “No doubt they want independence. But they've been seeking out the means for them to have their own personal radiation. And I've been the one to investigate leads on their behalf and examine anything that would be promising.

“And you can imagine this has become incredibly difficult these days to find something soaked still with balefire radiation that's operable. Much of it has been scrubbed.

“Recently though, I was called out here to check out rumors of a surviving, small Megaspell bomb and ensure its even operable, as my sources claims. And then to procure it. I've done just that.”

“Doesn't really sound like you need me at all.” replied Rusted. Morning walked back into the room, carrying a tray of old silver cups and a pitcher. Strong bitter smells filled the room as he put the coffee tray down. With his magic Alms lifted the pitcher and poured himself a cup of deep black coffee. He did the same for his companion and levitated it to the end table alongside him.

“Because it'd be dangerous to transport a whole bomb on one pony.” Alms replied, taking a sip of black coffee, “So I've had it dismantled and sent east on individual couriers. Mostly all the worthless parts that we wouldn't be at a pain to loose. All we got left is the warhead itself.”

“Wait, wait!” Rusted shouted, “You want me to move the boom part of a bomb!?”

“Not at all. We destroyed the detonator.” Alms said casually, “So other than it leaking lethal levels of uncontained radiation: it's no problem. But I also solved that problem and had it packaged safe for transport. As long as you don't blow a hole in its new box, you won't succumb to radiation sickness.”

“I still don't feel very well about this...” Rusted said, nervously lifting the cup of coffee in his hooves.

“How's a ten-thousand caps down-payment?” Alms said, freezing Rusted mid-sip. He could feel the hot steam of the fresh brew at his nose.

“Final payment will amount to fifty-thousand when you reach Neighagra Falls. My employers have their mansion there. They'll pay you in person.”

“fifty-thousand caps?” said Rusted... That was enough to restart his family's old caravan.

“And whatever else you might pick up in loot along the way.” suggested Alms, “I'm already financing for you a whole new set of gear and a new Brahmin. And any other goods you might be able to move between here and the next settlement you come across. So long as you don't sell the warhead.”

Rusted's hooves shook. The thick black liquid splashed out passed the lip of the silver cup. Crashing down on the couch. Or his hide. But he didn't care. Fifty-thousand final payment, after ten-thousand down.

“Where's the warhead? When am I moving?” he asked.

“I figured you'd agree.” Alms smiled, sipping more coffee. “To health!” he declared cheerfully, levitating out the cup.

Fallout: Equestria - of RP and Bellyrubs

I got around to work on a post so you're welcome.

The New Empires

Umad the Bro said
Don't know whether to try for war or diplomacy...

Does it really matter in the name of story-telling?

Step one in good decisive NRP'ing: drop the AOE/Civ schtick.

The New Empires

Umad the Bro said
Don't know whether to try for war or diplomacy...

Does it really matter in the name of story-telling?

Step one in good decisive NRP'ing: drop the AOE/Civ schtick.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Good enough post.jpeg

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Perm, Russia

The doors slammed shut before Jun, and he staggered back into dusty darkness. In through the mouth of the cavernous interior of the small chapel. Thin ribbons of sunlight crawled out between the shut doors and along the floor, illuminating thick clouds of dust that floated in the air in thick motes. The sun of gunfire continued to rage outside. But felt more random and untargeted.

“Cut it, he's already dead.” a voice yelled from outside. There was a silent pause, the roar of the shotgun quieting. Distant warbling sirens and alarms rose and fell in the new found peace.

“Should we post a watch?” another asked, hushed.

“No. We need to leave before the police arrive. Let Otluchen deal with him.”

There was a resigned silence of agreement from how ever many there were outside. If it had been the tank with the shotgun that was speaking or someone else was beyond the Chinese Agent. Feet spread apart, he stood a hand at the pommel of his sword. He expected them to follow.

There were no new words spoken. And there were no footsteps towards the door. Jun held his position, painting heavily as he waited. He had been sure they would have given chase. But they did not. His shoulder relaxed as a feeling of perplexion dawned over him. He had evaded them, and they were too afraid to enter. They knew where he was, but didn't seek to catch him.

Slowly, he lowered his hand from his weapon. His widened stance relaxed. He patted himself down, searching for any injuries he couldn't otherwise feel. He sighed with relief, finding none.

The police – according to his pursuers – were no doubt coming. And if the sirens were any indication they were finding their way in on the location. How long it would take was anyone's guess, complicated possibly by the enormity of damage caused on the streets of Perm. Congested traffic and other mess would delay the official police response as they sought a way to move around. But it wouldn't be complicated for them, and would buy Jun only a few minutes.

All the same, he couldn't go out the way he came. The gunmen might still be close enough to notice, and witnesses seeing him leave would reignite the chase. Knowing that they were onto the agent greatly reduced the odds out of his favor. It was a scary, unnerving thought to say the least. He'd have to readjust to find the people he needs to kill.

But for now, time to lie low. If they were too scarred to enter then no one else would follow any time soon. At best simply pretend, possibly. He could lie in the church, or take the time to find a backdoor and leave in the cover of courtyards and alleys.

He sighed confidently, loosening his posture. Turning to face the interior of the dark church.

Beyond the entrance the entire building was a cavernous, hallow shell darkened deep into its self. From boarded windows or minute cracks in the ceiling thin ribbons of light fell through, illuminating the dust and dirt that came to cover every surface of the inside. Highlighting on the ground a cascading mess of refuse and debris. Heaps of discarded rags littered the dark floor where the light fell and loose electrical cables hung cut and undisturbed from the rafters above. It was a hell of a mess in all, cracked and chipping. Peeling back against the wood and the structure itself.

Someone had been inside as well, pock-marking the walls with explosive holes and rifle-inflicted gauges in the plaster and marble. Crude graffiti had been painted over the white walls only to have been partially scorched off. Jun ran his fingers along the walls as he walked out into the main central hall. The plaster drywall cracking dryly as he went and crumbling into earthen dust as he dragged his nails across their damaged surface. How many had once been here? And how many of them had left when the Empire died? Or how many were slain in the chaos?

The floor boards creaked heavily under his feet as he stepped into the thick soupy shadows. His lungs itched at the thick dust he breathed in. Coughing dryly he heard something that sounded like rustling deeper in the building. Rats perhaps. Or bats higher above. There was a crude animalism to the way the noises moved and pecked across the wood.

Up ahead he could hear something heavy move. Plodding almost. A sense of unease crawled up inside of him and his hand crept down his side to his weapon. His heart beat hard in his chest as the wind of danger rolled up inside of him. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade at his side.

“Another puppet enters my den.” a voice said aloud in the church, echoing off the dusty rafters, the cavernous dusty ceiling. Echoing sharp and clear and become like it was calling from all directions. Jun spun swiftly on his heels as he thought it was coming from his side, drawing the silver metal of his dao ready to take on whoever had spoken. Only to moments later turn as the echo of the speaker's last words came from the other direction.

“And a man from the orient, no less.” the voice spoke again, crooning. It sounded dry and raspy. Smoky and low. It sounded choked and tired, but still filled with mental sharpness and swiftness. “I think I have heard of such a man creeping-crawling about Russiya. Sneaking about the countryside like a little spider.

“But not his own spider. Someone else's. You're another puppet. Where's your master? Not in Beijing.”

Jun turned, looking for the owner of the voice. But he only saw into the thick shadows. The words were spoken and echoed from all over the inside of the church. His heart raced with panic as he searched and prepared for something. He hoped whoever it was would pull back the bolt of a rifle, or flip the safety off any other gun. Then might he hear the sound and find where the speaker was hiding. If he could hear it over his loud omnipresent voice.

“I want to know, do you know what game you're playing?” said the voice in a prying tone. It picked and gauged. Not unlike an interrogator. “He came so far, to find himself a bigger spider's net. But will this spider be permitted to devour him?

“Not unless he moves. Then he might find himself more than caught.” the voice said, cracking to impatient anger.

Jun looked excitedly about. Fearfully searching for what it was the voice was implying. His eyes darted and crawled along every surface he could find. Across the black shadows, and the soft blue and yellow highlights of weak streams of light. Looking down to his feet, finding only garbage. Were there mines? Trip wires?

“He doesn't speak. I wonder if I have asked the right questions.” the voice said puzzled. There was a sluggish dragging from nearby, overhead. A dry bony rasping against dry wood. He looked up to the balcony just ahead of him. Not high off the ground. Rising from behind its walls, peeling with paint rose a lumbering limp figure. What looked like a man, with a head craned to one side.

“I wonder if he looks to look upon the eyes of God.”

“Who are you?” Jun finally said, hissing between clenched teeth as he still anxiously searched for the man. Or what he had implied was holding him in place.

“One who has seen the truth behind the actions.” he said, “I have foresaken my name, but not my information; for I must know. I am one who lost all, but retain his skill and the horror from these years of anarchy. In a past life I was hunted and scorned, sought to be snuffed out. But instead I was left to long sordid meditation as I waited for death; such things have a way for making such men think about life and the higher causes.

“And by chance, or some greater master's will: I was free.

“Who I am truly is a long story told in the third person. What I am now is the better answer. I am the enlightened. The revealed to. I achieved understanding over my brothers, and killed them all. I am, to the men who were just outside, Otluchen. Zài qūzhú in your language; The Excommunicated.”

“What does that mean then? Mafiya?” Jun demanded, affixed on the shadowy figure that hung above him, leaning over the raised pulpit like a limp doll.

“Was Mafiya.” Otluchen sneered, there was almost the sound of a grimace in his voice, “That was when I was Petyr Ostolvod. He is a dead man now. Drowned out by the realization of the true identity. One he came to know and be devoured by through the years. It is almost funny, he was scheduled to die not but two years before he passed away and made way for myself.

“I can dissect you. Not without tools or surgical implements. No EKG or anesthesia. I don't even need to kill you to see into you. I know all I need to know to piece it together. You're another hit-man. An assassin. Fortunately for me, I doubt my name was on any list. All the same, by association, would you kill me?”

Jun took deep angered breaths. He stood haunched and ready. If anything seemed off, he would need to defy his demands and move. It was the best chance he had. “What if I said 'yes'?” he asked.

“It would not matter. If I die to you it's because of a higher player than I willed it. Do you know free will?”

Jun was silent on the matter.

“I will assume you do. Or you think you do.” sneered the speaker, “Petyr once spent some time in America. There he attended a conference on liberty. During which an oriental such as yourself pleaded the Chinese knew not of liberty or the force of freely thinking. He doubted he was telling the truth to himself, feeling he was speaking it as someone's token to validate their point. But thinking back on Petyr now, I suspect he was right. The Chinese indeed have not changed their styles from anything more free from what they had before, and follow the beck and call of a new master-slave. From one Jurchen to the next.

“No, thinking back I doubt they know freedom and liberty like we in Russia knew, or in America. Or in Europe. But then, they weren't any closer, but closer than the Chinese all the same. Closer than the Africans. Closer than the Arabs, but they themselves had a closer understanding of what was, while the west and Russia tried to throw off the shackles of being the old society. The Ottoman Empire and Persia over knew – or once knew – the realization of the ultimate relationship between people and to the Higher One.”

“Higher one?” Jun asked. He was willing to humor him, if it gave him a few more minutes.

“There is a distinct relationship between one man to another on how to do his part and to be a part of the whole.” Otluchen monologued. His voice slowly finding one source as the figure over the pulpit rose higher. “Peasent would serve to lord who would serve his Empire. And we thought the line would end there. Sometimes they'd near closer to being correct by claiming divine guidance from God. But then the chain stops there.

“Do you think God controls everything in this world? No, he's just another intermediary controlling the things we understand. But beyond that and into theory? The somehow bizzare and unpredictable way man acts even, from top to bottom? Would God have willed for the Great War to go on for as long as it did and to rape his creation so easily?

“What about the retreat of the Spanish from Helsinki? The rise of China from a backwater state to what it is now, even if it is a red cancerous blemish that should be purged much like the self-proclaimed Republic of Spain?

“One evil or hypocrite to another. Truth prevails over all and all liars will eventually die. Those who admit to the truth will live long and happily, or die knowing well that they served the master to the last word of his final dramatic act. A stage show. This is all a stage show. Put on by the benefit of not one, but several. And who knows how many lives they torture for their own amusement, granting power to some individuals arbitrarily.

“But even I know that beyond them there must be something greater. Well beyond my scope in knowing, or yours, or anyone's.”

The figure over the raised pulpit finally worked over the wooden rails. Swaying wildly from the toying of gravity as it floated down to Jun like a specter, hanging limp like a hangman. As it drew closer the features on its person became clearer. The rich embroidering of its robes. The long tangled mane that was a beard and the twisted white locks of hair. A stretched gaunt face with empty sockets, casting shadows across themselves. Then the wide opened mouth, like a ghost screaming.

Otluchen's voice sounded stronger from it. “In knowing this, thinking this, and expressing myself Petyr distanced himself from the man who titles himself God. His followers grew frightened. Though Petyr inspired his own followers. He stood ideologically opposed. But at the same time, though conflicting, he knew that this stance was necessary for existence. For it is the dramatic dichotomy that drives the Higher One's theater. Do you know who's watching you, orient? Who is applauding for your successes, or against you in your defeats?”

Jun was speechless for a response. He watched in shuddering disgust as the corpse of the priest lowered itself down to Jun. Hanging within conversational distance from him. The shadows in his eyes lifted to reveal empty putrid sockets. His flesh was a gaunt leathery green. And in his gaping maw was a speaker.

“It is understandable to not be able to answer. For we may not be able to identify these actors in our own life.” Otluchen continued, “We may need to die to meet them. Or even in death we won't, because we'll simply cease to exist. Or perhaps we'll be reincarnated, unaware of the stories we once defined.

“When Petyr concluded this, he died. He empties his shell and I came in and took his place. As I do the shells of so many former persons that litter this room.

“I would not look, some are deadly, tovorich.”

Jun stared stunned into the face of the dead man that hung before him. Looking up he saw the faint glimmer of thin cables. “Do not worry about those. They are theater.” the corpse-priest laughed, “You have given me pittance enough to talk. I will not worry. But I still must know, are you here to kill me? Or do you want to see through your cause and the following acts of your life?”

Gobsmacked, Jun stared on at the cables above and the looming dead priest before him. He didn't know however long the body had been dead. But before him it smelled fresh as ever. Bitter, it dug into his tongue and his breaths through his mouth brought in a stifling sour taste. “I don't suppose I would have the chance.” he said, looking around. In the darkness of the interior there could be many places he hid. And he could clearly see him. He was in the cross hairs of a target he could not find. And it knew it.

“I will let you in on some truths.” Otluchen said, “Here in Perm, you have no allies. I am still in the game to play politics among my old brothers. They excluded me, but the fear me too much to remove me. I am unable to move freely – if by choice – but I keep a radio. It is how I know you were coming and that I have a rough idea on who it is destined to die.

“A man like you will need information to carry on. And I have such information. But I'll pass it on under the pretense you kill someone for me, or some persons. Do we understand?”

“I... do...” Jun said unsure. He didn't feel at ease assisting a criminal, one that was a member of or associate to the group he was tasked to destroy to his best abilities. But he already knew his cards, he had no choice.

“Excellent. What do you know of the Angles of Death?” Otluchen asked.

“They sound familiar.”

“They are the personal hitmen of Bog. His physical muscle in this world. One resides here and practices out of here. He goes by the name of Gabriel.

“Kill him and bring me his head so I may appraise it and cheer for being on the right side of the directors and the writers of the universe. Then I will reveal to you the information you seek, and fill you on more.”

“Just for killing this man?” asked Jun.

“It won't be easy.” Otluchen sneered, “And he has company from a wraith.”